


I'm Not in Love (So Don't Forget It)

by fortyfive_rpm (2davidbeckham3)



Series: Dial Tone [3]
Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: 1970s, Clubbing, M/M, Making Out, No Plot/Plotless, slight introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25521676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/fortyfive_rpm
Summary: An encounter at a night club.
Relationships: Mick Jagger/Keith Richards
Series: Dial Tone [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837687
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	I'm Not in Love (So Don't Forget It)

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand-alone or as a prequel to _Tell Me._ In Mick's POV. Set in the mid 1970s, hence slight jab at Ronnie for being the new kid on the block.
> 
> Not a lot of kissing and not a lot of talking. Just a lot of words. 
> 
> Title from: [I'm Not in Love by 10cc](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STugQ0X1NoI), one of the top songs in 1975, according to Google.

_“And I like large parties. They're so intimate. At small parties there isn't any privacy.”_

_– F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby_

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, there are only so many vapid, pointless conversations Mick can take, even when half of the conversations are mostly drowned out by the beat of a bass.

It’s how Mick finds himself off and away from the dance floor in a sparsely populated area of the club, uncharacteristically a wallflower. It’s not much of an improvement from talking to people he didn't care for, surrounded by crowded booths he didn’t want to examine too closely, their denizens either sitting in each other’s laps, or kneeling beneath previously glossy black tables, now matte charcoal, covered in white powders and other poisons of choice.

It’s an unsettling place to end up alone, especially when even the darkest shadows have a palpable presence. Mick likes having company. Good company. And that’s the issue - good company’s hard to come by. He's thinking about calling it a night, at this point, the liquid in his glass is more mostly-melted ice than vodka, when he spots a familiar face in the crowd. 

Keith’s confident saunter is unmistakable, stilted as it is, as he winds his way through the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor. 

“Well, what a surprise,” Mick calls out once Keith is within earshot, disguising his genuine curiosity as sarcasm. Given the time of night, Keith looks surprisingly put together. His wrinkled shirt’s half-tucked into his jeans which are still high up his on his hips, not hanging low and exposing his hip bones in the aftermath of a quick fuck. Of course, his hair is mussed up, though Mick’s seen Keith in various states of dishevelment to know that the unkempt style is caused by Keith’s own hands and no one else's. There aren’t too many reasons that could explain why Keith’s still at the same place he started the night, instead of his third dive of the night or in the process of ridding someone of their underwear, unless he’s searching for his new sidekick. “Did you lose Ronnie?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Keith drawls, shrugging a shoulder. He follows the enigmatic gesture with a tilt of his head, deliberately dragging his gaze down Mick’s body in a blatant once-over. “Why d’you ask?” He asks once he meets Mick’s gaze. 

Mick’s a front man of a rock ‘n roll band, he’s used to having people’s eyes on him, adoring fans fawning over him, even the occasional journalist trying to get something more _exclusive_ out of him. Nothing compares to Keith when he tries his hand at seduction. Mick doesn’t quite hide the shudder that runs down his spine, if Keith's responding slow smirk is anything to go by. 

“Well,” Mick replies after a moment's hesitation. “Ron’s always trying to impress you.”

It’s a weak deflection, they both know it. Keith’s smirk sharpens into something wicked. “Sounds like you're jealous.” He doesn't give Mick a chance to respond before stepping closer into Mick’s personal space, close enough to smell the Jack Daniel's on his breath. “Why're you still here?” 

The shadows in Keith's gaze have Mick reconsidering his response to the seemingly simple question. “Does it matter?” They're dancing around something and Mick's too sober to parse it out. Usually, Mick can't care less about what people get up to in the dark corners of nightclubs, but he feels too exposed. Everything's too much. This time he's the one that doesn't let Keith respond. “C’mon.” He grabs Keith’s hand and marches them onto the dancefloor, depositing his watered-down drink onto the tray of a waitress they pass by. “Now, we won’t be overheard.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Keith muses, nearly inaudible over the sound of the music. Intent rumbles through his voice like a struck match. “Talk?” 

Warmth pools in Mick’s stomach as he's held by Keith's steady gaze, the tinted lights painting his face a kaleidoscope of colors. “Did you have something else in mind?” Mick's the one that's supposed to ensnare people in his web, but, then again, Keith’s always gone toe to toe with him. Still, it leaves him feeling more off kilter than the fact that he has to tilt his chin to look up at Keith, since the guitarist's wearing some ridiculous high-heeled boots that should have been left in Nellcôte.

“Yeah. Can I show you?” Despite the fact that the cat-and-mouse routine’s probably gone on for longer than he had planned, Keith's lost none of his intensity. 

Mick gulps, following the way Keith's eyes flick down to his throat and with it, he's effectively swallowed down any sense of self preservation with it. “Okay.” He nods, staring at Keith's lips. He’s leading this dance. 

Until he’s not. 

“Okay,” Keith echoes, before bringing his hand to the back of Mick's neck, ruffling up his sticky, sweat-damp hair. 

When their lips finally meet, it's an inelegant affair. For a moment, there's too much teeth and humid air trapped between them. Then, Keith's chapped lips part beneath Mick’s probing tongue. Mick can taste the stale alcohol and even staler cigarettes on Keith's breath. It's not how Mick usually chases his highs, but everything’s different when it comes to Keith even when it's all the same. Mick lives for the way Keith makes his knees go weak and his toes curl - with a riff or a kiss - it’s addicting, no matter the circumstances. They don't cut corners, they never have, even when it's a brief celebratory peck after a successful single or a languid, open-mouthed embrace in Southern France for all to see. 

Keith’s blunt nails scratch the back of Mick's neck, startling a broken moan out of Mick. The sound is no more than a rumble in his chest, but it brings them back to reality as the noise is mostly drowned out by the sound of a steady bass. Back to the writhing mass of bodies surrounding them. When they part, they only lean back far enough to catch their breaths. 

Mick unclenches his hands from Keith's rumpled shirt to run his trembling fingers down the line of slippery, fake mother of pearl buttons on Keith’s shirt to distract himself - Keith’s a Rolling Stone and still doesn't think to invest in better clothes. At least, the cheap button-up would be easy to tear off him. 

Keith chuckles as if he heard Mick's last thought. “Wanna take this t’somewhere more private?” His lips brush against Mick's ear as he speaks.

Mick shivers at the heated undercurrent in Keith's question. Privacy, at this point, could mean somewhere deeper in the crowd, somewhere in an alleyway, or back in one of their hotel rooms. Mick’s not too picky, but finds himself licking his lips at the thought of them in bed together. 

Keith pulls Mick from his thoughts. “Well?” He presses for an answer before tucking his head down to scrape his teeth against Mick's neck, telegraphing his intent with the purposeful move. 

“Sure you wanna risk it?” Mick mumbles, mostly to himself, hoping Keith doesn't pick up on the double meaning of the words. Still, he punctuates his statement by pulling on one of the cheap buttons on Keith’s shirt, lightly dragging his nails down the newly exposed skin, savoring the way Keith’s breath stutters. 

“'m asking you,” Keith retorts, his bemusement dulled by the serious undertone in his voice, toeing the line between smug and vulnerable. 

It’s a privilege to see Keith unguarded; it’s not something Mick takes lightly. Because of that, Mick decides to stop deflecting and answer something closer to the truth. “Do whatever you want with me.” He tilts his head up to bring their lips together in a chaste kiss. “I'm yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday Mick Jagger, here's a fic of you being seduced by your guitarist. (I'm just kidding, don't sue me.)  
> 
> 
> Did I allude to jealous!Mick, not only in jest with the Ronnie thing, but with the allusion to their time in Nellcôte? Yes. Did I write this so I could write flirtatious/seductive Keith? Also yes.
> 
> I had this fic planned before the series, but thought it could fit in to the timeline, anyways. Hopefully, it worked!  
>    
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
